Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Thirty Two: Saving Grace

She didn't know how long they'd been staring at each other through the bars. She wasn't supposed to be down here; she was supposed to be in the kitchens where Brillan had left her, and there would be trouble when she was discovered missing.

She didn't even know why she was down here, except that she needed to see him face to face again – but she couldn't even come up with a good reason for that. She had had questions, she was sure of it, when she came down the stairs. Whatever they had been, they had fled her thoughts entirely.

Jeorge looked equally nonplussed at her presence, but didn't seem inclined to be the first to speak; he watched her steadily from the bench in the corner of his cell and waited.

Her eyes moved from his face to his wings, which were spread out behind him. They were mottled reddish brown, thick bands of dark umber decorating the longest feathers. Nova's had been white, flecked with black on the furthest tips; much prettier than these, but she would have taken anything over the aching emptiness between her shoulder blades now. She had always been aware of their absence, in a way that had dimmed over the years, but now she felt again the shock of those first few months without them, the pain of healing and the fresh chill at her back.

Pain made her casual smile into a stiff grimace.

"You've got some nerve coming here."

Jeorge rattled his chains. "I didn't exactly have a say in it."

She spoke in Common, but he responded to her in Caelumese. The language felt like dirt on her tongue. Forming the words dredged up painful memories.

"I mean the city," she said. "Left Caelum at all. It would've been kinder if a demon had eaten you."

"I travelled with an Unspoken," Jeorge said. "That wasn't going to happen."

"So you did lie to Eril?"

"What? No," he said, looking baffled.

"Then how did you afford an Unspoken if you turned up in rags?"

"It was a trade," Jeorge replied, sticking his nose up. "He was old. I protected him and his wagon from bandits, and he protected me from demons." He sniffed. "And I didn't leave Caelum in rags."

Nova snorted. "Don't tell me you got robbed by bandits."

"It wasn't bandits," he muttered, "It was a Varthian chieftain and two thugs. I wasn't going to argue with them, was I?"

"You're pathetic," Nova said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Have you seen a Varthian?" he said, and then seemed to realise she was referring to something else. "I... Look, Anara..."

"Don't call me that." She stepped closer, closing her hands around the bars. "Never call me that."

Jeorge's eyes glittered at her. "He calls you that, doesn't he? Harkenn."

"Doesn't mean you get to," Nova snapped, and then cursed herself for the childishness of her answer. Jeorge had always known how to get under her skin, and she always let him.

"What is that, anyway?" he asked, "I didn't expect to see you here, let alone in his employ."

"Employ?" Nova's laugh grated out of her. "I'm not in his employ, Nerahardt."

"Then what?" He hated being ridiculed; it was a small blessing to her to see that something had finally made him twitch.

"Didn't this give you enough of a clue?" she asked, pointing to her slave collar. "I was arrested the minute I got here. I've been here ever since." She tapped the bars with her fingernails and smiled when he winced. "I don't fancy your chances."